During

He knocks, I let him in, kiss him hello. Take his coat, shut down my laptop. Estimated Age: Mummy is thrilled to have brought me a present, hopes I’ll like it. But before the big reveal, we chat for awhile, politics, being left, being right (as you may have guessed, I’m fairly liberal). From his hello kiss, I’ve noticed a faintly objectionable odor, the decayed smell one gets when one has a fragment of meat lodged somewhere in the back teeth and hasn’t flossed in awhile. Because I notice it right off the bat, it gets gradually stronger until I first avoid breathing in when near his mouth, then move to a plan of breathing only through my mouth.

He spends the rest of the first hour and a good third of the second rubbing me with lotion while we talk – he has good hands, he works indoors, and he’s got the sense to trim his nails *and* file them smooth. Most men miss step two. It feels like he’s delaying his treat – he spends time on my back, my neck, my arms, lingers awhile on my ass while telling me (again) that he respects that I don’t do Greek (translation: when are you going to make an exception for me? but still low-key enough not to bug me), works down my legs, I still have my boots on but I’m otherwise starkers. I realize I’m getting cold – damn, it’s the “mint” in the “rosemary mint” lotion – and turn up the heat. I flip over, he spends time around my neck, his hand on my throat in a proprietary way that makes me wonder if he’s a choker. I certainly am, but not in this context.

EA:M works his way down my body, his skin on mine, this is nice, and he’s pressing hard enough to not just be about his jollies, the rub-down is actually helping my sore abs. And then the present, from a black plastic bag:

vibrating nipple clamps.

I’ve only just recently experienced nipple clamps, courtesy of Lover. I adore them. I adore pain. But for me, good pain takes me to and happens in a place where I am raw, naked, open – it’s too personal to sell. Heck, it’s too personal to do with most people.

So I crank the screws to a tightness where the clamps will barely stay on, I have to be careful not to move abruptly. He goes down, kneeling on a pillow beside the bed. I use my foot to turn the clock on the bedside table to face me. God, I’m becoming stereotypical. Only 25 minutes to go.

He wants me to talk dirty, to tell him about being with another woman. He also asks me to tell him what he’s doing while he’s dining at the Y, and how it feels. I, who can blog so eloquently that Tom wonders if I really feel what I write or if it’s merely skillful pyrotechnics, can barely figure out what to say. I like talking dirty – in the moment. But I’m not actually having a moment right now. I’m having minutes.

I fake it twice, both times because I’m coming relatively close and I don’t want to come for real, this way, with him.

“Tell me your deepest, darkest fantasy. One you never tell anybody.” No price is high enough. The pool table scene that vaguely resembles “The Accused” is right out. I make one up about getting pulled over for speeding and taken from behind by the cop, bent over the car. I do actually find the bit about the cop acoutrements on his belt banging into me pretty sexy. The hoods of cars reminds him:

Years ago, I was seeing a girl who loved the moon – we used to go out driving and go down whatever country lanes to look at the moon. You can look up the charts of when the moon’s going to rise, so I took her out one night and timed it so I went down on her laying on her back on the hood of the car and she could watch the moon rising over my head.

When I go down on him, it starts to feel wrong, to be wrong. I am within a hair’s breadth of spitting out the dick and telling him to take his money and go home. I can’t do this comes up in the back of my throat, and I push it back down, thinking of a young man who cared enough to find out when the moon rose.